Family Legacy
by blackrose113
Summary: Genius as he was, politician and peacemaker, there was one thing he never could be. A good husband. The downward spiral of Peter Wiggin’s marriage and one more thing to add to his list of failures: carrying on the family legacy.


One-shot after reading Chapter 9 in Shadow of the Hegemon. I've forgotten how the rest of the series goes.

Summary: Genius as he was, politician and peacemaker, there was one thing he never could be. A good husband. The downward spiral of Peter Wiggin's marriage and one more thing to add to his list of failures: carrying on the family legacy.

**Family Legacy**

Because his mother had finally admitted to him that she knew he was Locke. For a while Demosthenes. She had lied to him for years. And everything she had ever said to him had been measured, tested, carefully implanted to change his being.

He remembered every word she spoke to him. Her idealistic values of loyalty and honesty, courage and goodness that should have resided in his heart. And her one wish for him and the rest of her children no matter that she'd never see them again outside the picture albums that captured so little of their lives, or the nightmares that adorned her sleep.

So he obliged, and knew that for all the lies she fed him, this one thing was true and good, and he would do it for her as she lay with cancer spreading through her body and death through her mind. He would carry on her last wish. He would carry on the Wiggin line.

There had been an instant attraction, the first time he saw her blue eyes—contacts, she easily admitted in their second conversation. She wasn't nearly as smart as him. Not as creative, as authoritative, as charming or intelligent. But she could banter, she liked baking, and surprises. Her sundresses were bright and happy and contrasted ridiculously with her job of cutting brains open and draining them or rewiring them to fix them up. She could hold her liquor and had a fondness for useless pulp fiction that he would never touch.

She was different and she was good and honest, courageous and loyal. And he found himself growing fond of her—enough that one day he personally bought the most expensive ring in the store and took her to the gardens right outside his building, in that romantic manner she always loved, where he got down on one knee and opened a small velvet box to the nervous smile on her face. He had his pants dry-cleaned that very day because the left knee was in the dirt and leaves, and hours later he flew her to Japan where they had an exquisitely expensive celebration dinner in a restaurant full of the most important people on Earth.

But sometimes her ignorance of politics sparked annoyance in him and he would lecture her like a child of all the goings-on in the world. But she would nod and smile while the cogs in her head worked on her current project in the hospital, and she would leave designer sofa no better informed of his work than when she sat down. By no means was she stupid. She was bright. She knew when there was a crisis in the world, or in the solar system, but connecting the barely perceptible dots was impossible on her part.

And his annoyance turned to disdain. His disdain to disgust. Until one day he wanted to hurt her as badly as he believed she hurt him, and he didn't come home. It was carefully planned, right around their anniversary—he always remembered the day, as a good husband should. And when he did return, it was early the next morning, so she could gaze at him through her brown, red-rimmed eyes, and see the pink smudge of lipstick on his blue collar, right before he disappeared into the bathroom for his shower.

She was gone by the time he came out, her bottle green jacket worn and her pretty leather boots out the door. She didn't return that night, and he had his secretary contact the hospital. She was working a double shift that night and had back-to-back surgeries in the O.R. Well good riddance, he thought.

But when he got into their king-sized bed and rested his head on the feather pillow, the light duvet over his body, he decided maybe it wasn't that good. And then he went to sleep.

When she finally returned, the dark bags under her eyes were covered with makeup and their swelling receding slowly. She placed her left hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek, welcoming him home and apologizing for leaving without writing a note. He was in the shower, she said through a yawn, and she was in a hurry. The pad of paper on the refrigerator door had run out and she was late for a surgery, she murmured as she kissed him on the cheek again.

He had been careful to shave, and his face was smooth. His eyes were fine—rested and as peaceful as always. He had lost no sleep over her absence and he made sure that she knew. Despite all this, she awoke the next morning and cooked him breakfast. She remembered his favorite cereal and how he disliked foods heavy in cream. The refrigerator was filled with the pastries and cakes she made when she was in panic, and he made reference to them in passing notice.

She returned later, at night, as usual, and he was back an hour after her, as usual. Their house was at peace and nothing was ever mentioned. He found himself almost smiling at the little comments she'd make about policies put into effect on Earth, and he openly admired the new sundress she just bought. It complemented her contacts, he elaborated with that little dimple in his left cheek just visible. And then she'd grin happily and chatter away about the last surgery she performed and the antics of her newest interns.

But then something she'd say would start to annoy him, and finally it would build up as it had the last time. And then he'd snap and hiss hurtful words at her, waiting until he saw the strain in her neck and the white of he knuckles to leave and drive to his office. And he wouldn't return that night, or the next, and his cell phone would be off. Not that she'd call. But he would come back—she would sometimes find an article of the woman's clothing in his pockets—and she would be waiting for him, with a kiss and a light hand on his shoulder.

And after a while, he started to hate her. He'd do this more often and more often until the one night she was gone became two, and then three, and then a whole week. And he'd see that the notepad on the refrigerator door was an inch thick and the pen was full of ink, and finally shame and guilt would settle in.

Because he had tried, really he did. But now his mother was dead and his wife despised him. And he still had no family legacy, and he knew the Wiggin line would come to a miserable end on Earth, with only him to give it his goodness and loyalty and his honor and courage. None of which he was sure, were ever truly there.

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